Watch It Burn
by fmapreshwab
Summary: When Moriarty comes for you, he comes for blood. But there's just no sport in a quick kill. Moriarty burns your heart, piece by piece, and it's always messy. Watch as he sets his sights on our beloved detective. Rated for language and violence.
1. In the Poolhouse

A/N: This is my first story for the BBC's Sherlock. Being an American, I haven't seen the second series yet (and if anybody spoils it for me, I shall be quite disappointed). This fic came about from a Moriarty line during 1x03, "The Great Game"; "I will burn you. I will burn the heart out of you." The second I heard it, all these ideas of how to hurt Sherlock started popping into my head, and I just had to get them down. I don't own the characters (that would be the BBC…or the Doyle family…or maybe they've hit public domain, I dunno), but I love them as much as anybody.

* * *

**Prologue: What Happens in the Poolhouse Should Stay in the Poolhouse**

The cab ride home was the longest John could remember. Perhaps it was the silence, John thought, staring at the seat before him. He and Sherlock sat side-by-side, trying to forget the things they'd seen throughout the night, having met and barely escaped the most clearly insane man with whom John had ever come face-to-face. Or at least that was what John was doing. He had so long ago stopped trying to decide what it was that Sherlock was thinking at any given moment.

John had tried making a game of it, watching Sherlock for any indication of what must be the raging storm of facts, inferences, opinions and deductions swirling around his misleadingly average-sized head. When they'd first become flatmates, he had found it to be the only entertainment which could hold his interest. He'd once stayed at it all day, trying for any indication of what the man was thinking. After all, it wasn't as if he'd had anything better to do lately. One could only watch so many crap telly programs before they became as predictable and dull as Sherlock claimed the rest of the world to be. He'd sat on the couch, utterly focused, for more than six hours. But to no avail. His only consolation was the laugh he'd had when he realized Sherlock hadn't noticed his staring.

John had recently seen a small part of what was going on in there, and he was more than glad now that he'd failed all those times before. The man, John was beginning to realize, was some sort of cosmic tradeoff. For all his intellect, he had no social conscience, no awareness of others. If John hadn't known very much better, he would suspect that Sherlock had no soul.

Certainly the trip over hadn't taken so long, John thought, staring out at the city streets rushing by around them. But then, he'd had a bag over his head at the time and couldn't be counted on reliably for time. Moriarty's men had been surprisingly gentle as they grabbed him off the street, but thinking about it violated the promise John had made to himself not to think about that crazed bastard until he was ready to accept that everything that had just happened was real, and not some ridiculous fevered nightmare spawned of too many at the pub with Stamford, or maybe some virus he'd picked up at the clinic.

Gazing out the window as the city rushed by outside, Sherlock spoke, breaking into John's reverie. "John, are you cross with me?"

The question took him more than a little off guard. Try as he might, he could find no connection between the night's events, strange as they were, and Sherlock's seemingly random line of questioning. "Wha—I, um…no. Why-why do you ask?"

Sherlock made no mention of John's flustered state, much to John's relief. "Ordinarily, when we take the cab, you sit across from me. Unless you're cross with me." He fell silent for a moment, and John was just foolish enough to begin to hope that he would let the matter be. Sherlock turned away from the window to look over at John as he asked, "Why is that, by the way?"

John sighed, knowing that trying to lie would be pointless; Sherlock saw through everyone, and John didn't think he could be the exception. "When I…when I'm upset with you…I don't like to look at you."

Sherlock _hmm_ed smally. "So, conversely, when you're not cross with me, you do like to look at me." It was not phrased as a question. "So, then, if you're not cross with me, why aren't you sitting across from me?"

John sighed, not wanting to give voice to his troubled thoughts. "I just…I want to…I don't want to think about what just happened. I'm trying to forget. For now, anyway. Until…until it's not so fresh. Until I can process what just happened."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. He looked forward in that way he had of trying to ignore John's humanity. Anytime John tried to open up to the man, he got like this. Not that John minded overmuch most of the time. "And how's that going for you?" Sherlock asked, his tone indicating he didn't much care, but wanted John to realize he was making the effort.

"Terribly," John admitted, hunching over and resting his elbows on his knees. He covered his face with his hands. "I can't stop thinking of that horrible lunatic."

"I don't imagine talking about it will help you forget," Sherlock said off-handedly, clearly caring less for the conversation he had initiated as it wore on.

But his demeanor was too much for John, not now. "We almost died, you know," John snapped, turning to Sherlock once more. "That madman almost killed us both."

Sherlock sighed. "Yes, I believe you'll find that a more common occurrence the more time you spend in my company. Occupational hazard, I'm afraid. Come, John, it's not as if this is the first time someone's tried to kill you."

John set his head back into his hands, sinking slightly as he let himself remember. "Yes, but he had me. The only reason he didn't kill me outright when he picked me up off the street was to get under your skin. I'm like a pawn in your sick chess game." Despite himself, John remembered what lengths Sherlock had been willing to go to stop Moriarty.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "The chess metaphor is overplayed, John. You're better than that." He looked out the window once more. "Besides, you're at least a rook."

John straightened, smiling slightly. Compliments from Sherlock were odd and rare, but they always made him smile. "Sherlock?"

The detective sighed belaboredly, turning again to face John. "What did he mean?"

"Specifically?" Sherlock asked shortly.

John inhaled deeply, turning his mind to the most disturbing thing the insane Moriarty had said. "He said he'd burn your heart out. What do you suppose he meant by that?

Sherlock was staring intently now out the window, as though he were looking for something. Much as John had promised himself he would stop trying to read the man, he knew that look. Sherlock was thinking about something, working something out in his mind, doing something more complicated than John could even begin to conceive of. "In fact, he said he would burn the heart out of me, and I haven't the slightest idea what he could have meant."

John didn't believe his friend for a moment, but he allowed the comment to pass.

* * *

After the set-up, the fun starts, so I hope to see you back for more next time.


	2. Walkabout

A/N: This is my first story for the BBC's Sherlock. Being an American, I haven't seen the second series yet (and if anybody spoils it for me, I shall be quite disappointed). I still don't own any of the characters, so nothing on that front has changed. Read with caution, friends, knowing that this is where the trouble starts. Warning for character death (as if you hadn't figured that out).

* * *

**Chapter 1: Walkabout**

To those who knew him well, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was not a man of many habits. Men in his position could not afford to fall into patterns, or they, and those foolish enough to love them, would be punished for it. It was a lesson Lestrade had learned the hard way long ago, and now it was one he lived by. But there was one tradition he refused to allow to fall by the wayside.

Any of those few at the Yard who knew the Detective Inspector well knew of his weekly ritual and, without checking the large calendar which hung in the office, could have identified this day as the last of the week by the rain slicker Lestrade carried into his office. Today would be the day of his walkabout.

By the time he made detective inspector, a promotion long overdue if one were to ask the man himself, Lestrade had seen many a good man turned cynical by the job; some, unfortunately including his late predecessor, may the tortured soul rest in peace, had gone so far as to take their own lives rather than spend another day bearing witness to the utter depravity of their fellow man.

But Lestrade had identified the fatal mistake which had laid low so many men before him, and not a small few since: they had lost touch. When one witnessed constantly the worst man had in him, it became easy to forget that there was much else to be had. Lestrade had vowed that he would not allow himself to fall into the same trap of dour outlooks and depression.

Once a week, Lestrade took to the streets, reacquainting himself with the real London, distant cousin to that dark, horror-ridden thing he could otherwise grow so used to. When he was down there, out in the world, he saw conditions he would rarely see otherwise: people, alive and happy, carrying on like nothing in the world could stop them. And, for a couple of hours a week, Lestrade was willing to believe that nothing ever would. It kept him sane.

And, he supposed if he were feeling generous, some credit could be laid at the feet of a certain inconceivably annoying, uncommonly brilliant detective whose odd methods and incredible talent had kept the psyche-shredding unsolved cases and unanswered questions to a blessed minimum.

Lestrade sighed as he entered his office, taking in the large stack of unfinished paperwork on his desk. There were statements to be had, evidence to catalogue, confessions to verify, confirm and have witnessed. He had considered long ago buying a custom stamp with Sherlock's information to stamp into the 'Additional Comments and Relevant Information' box at the bottom of every single one of the blasted forms he had to fill out. He sometimes envied the madman his lack of oversight, his freedom from bureaucracy, but at the same time knew that his department would fall apart without a watchful eye over their shoulders.

Lestrade slumped down into his chair, thinking for a moment what crime scenes would be like without the rigid structure the Yard had in place. Sally'd run round shooting indiscriminately anyone she felt gave off the wrong sort of feeling or…vibe or whatever it was she based these things on. Half the younger officers would be rutting in basements, getting some thrill out of the "juxtaposition of life and death" or some such nonsense. Anderson, Lestrade was more than certain, wouldn't even show up.

All right, so perhaps it wouldn't be all bad, Lestrade thought with a grin, staring down the hallway that eventually led to Anderson's morgue. The man was a nightmare wrapped in a migraine, but at least he followed the rules. Unlike some people.

Lestrade sighed as he looked down to the first file in the stack. It was a robbery, he knew, that had been solved as the result of arson. Arson during which a certain army doctor would swear up and down a certain Yard consultant had been hung upside-down in their living room, testing how long he could hang that way without losing his sense of equilibrium. Apparently out of a sense of random curiosity. Lestrade wasn't sure whether or not he believed it, but that was the nature of Sherlock. 23 minutes, 46.935 seconds, Sherlock had been entirely too proud to inform him.

Regardless of alibi, Sherlock had been taken on for the case, and so all his deducings and musings and, to believe some select subordinates, guessing and luck, needed to be recorded and filed, and god help the detective inspector who would have to track him down for a statement. Lestrade looked balefully at the phone in his office, knowing full well that Sherlock never answered a proper call. Perhaps the doctor.

Lestrade swept the offending file to the side, putting off the inevitable compromising, threats, frustration and anger for a later time, one in which he would hopefully have more patience for the games so relished by the magnifier-wielding lunatic. That wasn't fair, Lestrade knew; Sherlock took no joy from his ridiculous antics, they were just another part of his nature.

The file beneath was one he had also been putting off, for what he realized was much the same reason. Lestrade had no forceful urge to call Sherlock, but at least he would come for an interesting case. And, perhaps, after his customary once-over of the scene (or preferably even before), he could get the sod to sign the papers before he ran off on his next half-baked adventure. Lestrade grinned, knowing he would be reading about the man's exploits all too soon, whether the madcap detective knew it or not.

Lestrade loosed his mobile from his pocket, punching in the doctor's number from depressingly vivid memory. After four rings, a harried voice snapped out a short, "Hullo!"

"Doctor, it's Lestrade." Lestrade had long ago learned that direct worked best with the doctor, especially when he used that particular tone, the "Sherlock, put that down" tone.

"Yes, Lestrade, this is John." There was a crash in the background, and the doctor swore under his breath. "Sherlock, get down from there before you snap your blood neck. No, I never said it wouldn't work, I just want to know why you would need it to!" John sighed, apparently not receiving the response he had hoped for. "I'm sorry, Lestrade, I can't seem to recall what possessed me to call you."

Lestrade grinned, recalling from his daughter's childhood the frayed sanity of a new parent. "I called you, doctor, with a distraction. Tell your bloke that if he will stoop so low as to fill out the paperwork required by we mere mortal police officials, I might just have a spot of entertainment for him. It's not quite a gruesome one, but it's a puzzler."

"He's not _my_…my anything, Lestra—Sherlock, I swear to god, if you don't get down from there this instant, I will shoot you in the calf. No, get it off your neck, now. If nothing else, you're going to ruin that couch!" There was another extended pause, then a sort of scuffling sound on the other end of the call.

Finally, Sherlock's voice broke through, somewhat hoarse. "Lestrade, I'll take it. No paperwork." His tone was clipped, and he seemed to be out of air.

Lestrade sighed, trying to cover his concern. "Look, you have to do the paperwork on the really weird ones if you want to keep working for the Yard—."

"You know, I don't actually work for you," Sherlock interrupted. "It isn't as if you've paid me." From the dry tone, Lestrade could just see the man rolling his eyes.

"Allow me to rephrase, then. Fill out the damned forms or you're not to come within 10 blocks of another of my crime scenes." Lestrade was using his sternest voice, the one everyone knew not to trifle with. Everyone, that is, except for Sherlock.

"You need me," Sherlock informed him, promptly and smugly.

Lestrade grinned, knowing that just this once, Sherlock had left himself open. "Not as much as you need us," he informed the arrogant bastard in his hardest voice. "You either come and fill out a few papers now, or in three days when the boredom has you crawling the walls. Your move, you soddin' git."

"You know," Sherlock said after a moment's pause, "you're very lucky I _don't_ actually work for you. I think that would be harassment. Text me the details. We'll be along."

"Not an inch until you take it down!" John yelled in the background. That was the last thing Lestrade heard before the connection was severed at the other end. He shook his head, shuddering at the thought of what was going on in that flat.

Lestrade put the thought of the pair's madhouse out of his head as he sent Sherlock the address to a coffee shop three blocks from the scene of the murder on which he'd be consulting. It never paid to take Sherlock on his word, another lesson Lestrade had come about in the most difficult manner imaginable.

* * *

Lestrade sat in the café, sipping at a cup of coffee as he waited for Sherlock to arrive. There was a large stack of papers before him, and Sherlock wouldn't get a single step closer to the murder before he'd done his due diligence and filled out his share of the witness statements. Looking down, the detective inspector leafed through some five cases worth of files that required either statement, signature or information from the gawky detective.

Lestrade thought he might try this play in the future, on the off chance it actually worked. The odds seemed to turn against him, though, as John Watson appeared unescorted in the doorway. The doctor looked round the shop a moment until he spotted Lestrade, then heaved into the chair across the table from him. "It's adorable that you've tried your hand at cleverness. Or it would be, if you weren't quite so transparent." The doctor grinned. "His words, not mine."

Lestrade glared a moment at the as usual overly-cheery doctor. "You know, you _can't_ do everything for him, at least not for very long."

The doctor's brow crinkled slightly, and Lestrade got a look he'd been used to only from Sherlock. John was about to start talking down to him. Oh, joy of joys. "Exactly how helpful do you think Sherlock would be with…all this?" he asked, running a finger up the short edge of the files, throwing them into minor disarray.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "No offense, doctor, but I don't think you're… exactly the man for this job."

"Ah, ah," John cut him off, pulling a notebook from his jacket pocket. "Sherlock may well be the brains, but _I'm_ the memory," he said with a sarcastic little grin.

"Well, isn't that just special," Lestrade said, pushing the stack of papers toward him.

John looked down at the files, producing a pen seemingly from nowhere. "Yes, well, you know what they say. Ours is not to wonder why, and, well…you know, I don't much care for the rest."

Lestrade sighed, feeling his mobile buzz against his hip. Pulling it loose, he noticed he had a text from Donovan. Of course he did. _Freak's here_, it read simply. "Seems your boy found my murder scene after all."

"Was there ever any doubt?" John asked distractedly as he consulted his notes and transcribed them onto the pages before him. He looked up at Lestrade for a moment, just long enough to correct him. "And he's not my anything." He took back up with the pen in a huff.

That snarky little comment jarred something loose in Lestrade's memory of their previous exchange over the wire, and he just couldn't help himself. "What was all that on the phone earlier?"

"Hm?" John asked, not even bothering to look up this time.

Lestrade grunted. "You know, all that 'I'll shoot you in the calf' business." How common, one had to wonder, were these incidents that they went so easily forgotten?

John chuckled as he read over his notes, an inappropriately fond smile crossing his face. "Oh, that. Sherlock was testing…it's silly really. He designed a set of harnesses to prevent a hanging."

Lestrade felt the sip of tea he'd been downing coming back out through his nose, but was unable to stop it. "He was test—so he tried to hang himself, you mean."

"Noose and all." John shrugged noncommittally. "He was sure it would work, but I don't like the chances he takes."

"So you threatened to shoot him," Lestrade supplied incredulously.

John looked up at the inspector from under his eyebrows. "Certain injury versus potential death. You do the math."

Lestrade shook his head, wondering if the doctor had always had a screw loose, or if Sherlock really was as contagious as Anderson and Donovan seemed to think. At the end of the day, as long as he was still useful, it didn't matter overmuch. But Lestrade still wondered.

It was another 20 minutes before John was finished with the paperwork. "I'll have Sherlock sign these, and we'll get them back to you as soon as we can." Lestrade heard a buzz from across the table, and watched as John face lit up over the screen of his phone. "That's him now. Looks like he might have a lead. I'm to meet him at a pawn shop in the old East End. Mean anything to you?"

Lestrade felt his face crumple in on itself. "It was the murder of a literature professor from Cambridge. Haven't a clue what he's up to at the pawn shops."

John chuckled just a touch under his breath. "Maybe he's just looking for more jars. He keeps saying he wants to expand his collection, and the toes'll be around until _at least_ February."

Lestrade cocked his head to the side. "I don't want to know what any part of that means, do I?"

John gave him an innocent grin. "Why, Inspector, I haven't the slightest idea what you could possibly mean."

"Yeah, yeah," Lestrade groaned, rolling his eyes. "Off with you, then, and I'll be expecting signed originals by tomorrow, first thing."

John chuckled again, but made no response as he scooped the stack of forms up and strolled out of the shop to hail a taxi. Lestrade left a few sovs on the table and followed him out into the growing gloom of late afternoon. He figured that there was just enough time to try putting up with Donovan's ire and Anderson's sneering for allowing Sherlock on the scene of yet another crime, tolerate their theories of either luck or guilt on the man's part, file some papers of his own, then fetch his slicker and take his quiet walk home. Lestrade imagined as he hailed a cab of his own wandering the city in the only peace he was like to have until this time next week. God, but he did love Fridays.

* * *

It was late evening when the pair returned to Baker Street from their errand at the pawn shops. Sherlock had done quite a piece of deducing, and had realized that not only did the fellow not have a sister in London, who he was supposedly in town to visit, but that he wasn't even English, a fact he'd been hiding from friends and colleagues for near thirty years.

Sherlock had followed clues some hadn't even seen to a small shop in the East End, only to find that whatever the dead man had pawned had been reclaimed almost immediately, which left a gap in the timeline of his final hours. Somewhere along the way, he had dumped, dropped, handed off or disposed of whatever it had been, and they'd be hard on the case come sun-up, with Sherlock's network of paid city-dwelling informants on the lookout for anyone who had seen the man carrying something between the pawn shop and the empty flat in which he had eventually died and been found.

John had floated the idea that perhaps the man had been killed for whatever he had been carrying, but Sherlock pointed out that whatever the man had dropped at the shop had been of a larger size, as proved later by the ticket number, but his pant-fronts had been flat. Had the man been carrying the large item he had picked up, Sherlock had said, there would be creases in his pant-fronts from where he had allowed it to rest against his thighs. Obvious, apparently.

John was near content to pick things back up in the morning when Sherlock mentioned they would need a change. "Something dark, worn," Sherlock called from his room, door open as usual. "Something…never mind, you'll only foul it up. I'll find something for you."

Sherlock strode back into the living room wearing mostly tattered wool, a mix of dark greens and blues, with a black woolen cap pulled low over his forehead. John could hear the buzz of the mobile in his pocket from across the room. After a quick glance at the screen, Sherlock placed it once more in his pocket. "Aren't you going to answer that?" John asked around the bundle of clothes Sherlock had handed him. John could tell that the clothes were Sherlock's from the smell before he even checked the sizing, but perhaps it would help him identify as a street urchin to be so woefully dressed. That did seem to be the point after all.

Sherlock huffed slightly. "No, it's only Lestrade. Probably like to give me an earful about your little stand-in this afternoon."

"You know, you really should sign those forms, Sherlock. He told me he'd need them by tomorrow." John held absolutely no hope that they would be working their collective way to Lestrade's good side any time soon, and had taken care not to promise anything regarding a timeline for delivery of the forms.

John was turned away, looking back into the kitchen when the next buzz sounded, shorter this time. A text, then. "Do you suppose we have time for a pot of tea before we get start—." John turned to face Sherlock, only to find him staring down intently at his phone. He dropped the old clothes in his arms as Sherlock tossed him the phone, already running down the stairs as John caught it.

_that's 1_, the text read, followed by an address near Charing Cross. John felt the bottom fall out of his stomach as he realized that message had originated from Lestrade's mobile, the one from which Sherlock had only just been called. He raced after Sherlock, down the steps, out the door and barely into the cab before it pulled away.

* * *

John made quick work of their trip to the address Sherlock had been sent. On Sherlock's phone, he desperately tried to get Lestrade. After the third call with no results, John switched to his own mobile, calling the least used number in his contacts list (which really was saying something, considering). Sally Donovan answered on the second ring, while in his other ear, Sherlock's phone rang futilely on Lestrade's line.

John read Sally the address quickly, panic seeping pathetically into his voice.

"Hold on, then. What are you on about, now?" Sally asked petulantly, clearly not yet over Sherlock's intrusion on "her" crime scene from earlier in the afternoon.

"It's Lestrade," John said quickly, having no other way to deliver the information. "We think something's happened. Sherlock was sent a text with that address, from Lestrade's mobile, but we don't think it was from Lestrade. Sally, we think something's happened."

Donovan was quiet on the other end for only a moment, but in that moment, John was almost sure he'd heard Anderson in the background. _No business of mine_, the part of John's brain that was still functioning chirped loudly. "I'll be there in three," she said finally, a strong nervous edge to her voice.

John looked out the window as the cab began to slow. "I think we might be there now," he informed her. His heart sank as he saw the flashing lights and the knot of people standing out in front of a small grocer's shop on the street corner. The police were doing their best, but a curious crowd would not be held back. "Oh," John said, stepping out of the cab. "Oh, no."

The forgotten phone at his ear continued to chirp away at him in Sally Donovan's voice. "Dr. Watson? Dr. Watson, what's happened? John, answer me dammit!"

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade had been shot squarely in the face. Even from the street, John could see brain matter on the produce stand behind where he would have been standing, and it was all the doctor could do to slip into the professional state of mind he would need to shield him from the awful truth laying in a pool of its own blood on the sidewalk.

Even through the thoroughly destroyed face, anyone could see it from the clothes he wore to the set of his now slumped shoulders to the badge at his belt and the gun in his hand. The phone, which had fallen inches from the man's face, lit up as it buzzed, displaying a picture of Sherlock on its open screen as John tried once more in vain to reach him. The screen, like everything else within a foot of the body, was smeared with blood, and when John saw this, there was simply no more trying to escape the obvious. DI Lestrade was dead.

* * *

So, considerably longer this time round, and I think they'll be like this from here in. Stay with me, and we'll see how we do. RIP G(regory) Lestrade, the finest department head Scotland Yard ever did see.


	3. Feeling His Pain

A/N: This is my first story for the BBC's Sherlock. Being an American, I haven't seen the second series yet (and if anybody spoils it for me, I shall be quite disappointed). I still don't own any of the characters, so nothing on that front has changed. Read with caution, friends, knowing that troubles lie ahead. Warning for…additional character death.

* * *

**Chapter 2: Feeling His Pain**

_I have never been so glad of that riding crop in my life, but now that he has used the bloody thing to save me, I fear Sherlock shall never allow me to question his possession of it again._

_Returning to the case at hand, with the solid proof that the gentleman in question was in fact German, it was all merely tying up the loose ends from then on. The widow's daughter has since been taken to a facility in which she will be able to attain the help she so desperately requires, and our deadman's collection will be taken to the London museum of antiquities._

_So ended the case of the Cold War Collectibles, on a far more melancholy note than it had begun. Which truly says something, when one considers that the case began with a man stabbed to death in an abandoned basement._

_Life around Baker Street has been a touch tricky of late. Having seen so much, such death and depravity, first in the war, and now here as Sherlock's…anyway, it isn't often now I experience something that can make me stop to question the life I've chosen, even for a moment. I will admit to the odd moment spent wondering if Sherlock hasn't rubbed off on me in his way. I worry on occasion, until of course Sherlock tests the theory, if I haven't adopted his compassionless view of the cycle of life and death, but as many of you already know, we have recently lost one of our own, and it has been of such impact to throw all our lives into chaos._

_To the friends and loved ones of the late Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, whose name I steadfastly refuse to redact from this post, I offer my best wishes, my deepest condolences, and my sincerest assurances that we feel your pain. That he should have been taken from us in so random and violent a fashion is especially tragic. Greg was a colleague, a friend, and a damned good policeman, and he shall be sorely missed._

_-JW_

* * *

John stared at the computer, considering the line 'we feel your pain'. He alternated by the second between 'we' and 'I', trading sentiment for accuracy. 'We' sent a message of strong solidarity, of a shared grief, and so few knew Sherlock well enough to question the sentiment anyway. But the 'I' would be, by far, the more truthful. John had barely known Sherlock to even feel his own pain, let alone that of another. In the end, John decided to delete the line altogether, choosing instead to assure those bereaved that 'you are not alone'.

John was all too aware that what he was doing, fine tuning the sentiment and picking just the right words, overcompensated for what truly disturbed him. Having to label Lestrade's death as random was eating away at him, but of the entire world, only three people knew the truth of it.

Sally had arrived less than a minute after the pair, but the first responders on the scene had already labeled the crime a mugging gone awry. On such a busy street, no one had seen anything, and the men who had first been called didn't have the clues that Sherlock did. He had stepped up to call them all idiots, but before he'd had the chance, John had stopped him.

The two had decided to wait on Sally, who agreed with John that, for now, it would be preferable for people to think that Lestrade had been attacked on the street. She didn't for a second believe Sherlock's assertion that a mystery madman behind all of the city's most complicated crimes had tracked Lestrade's movements and taken his life as a stab at Sherlock, though she was more than willing to believe that the man was to blame.

There was a crash from the direction of Sherlock's room, and a brief shout, but silence settled once more after only a moment. Lestrade had been dead for nearly two weeks, and Sherlock had barely left his room. John had found his way only once through the door to that den of madness, but he had seen enough before being turned and repelled, but John had managed to leave a plate of food and get a cursory look around.

The room had been a shambles, paper and linens covering the floor. Sherlock's eyes were sunken and ringed by a deep purple, and he had been pacing at a maddening speed. He had been up for days before being sent to the scene of Lestrade's murder, a case on which the police were still hard at work, having found nothing. John had never seen Sherlock in such a state, and he was far from foolish enough these days to think that the end was anywhere near.

Instead of expressing any form of grief at the passing of a man he had yet to acknowledge as a friend, the detective would chase the same information around in circles until there was proof, or until he was distracted. And it would have to be a powerful distraction.

John sighed. They hadn't been called for a single case in the interval, and John was beginning to worry that Sherlock would eventually lose his mind over it. _A case, any case_, John silently begged the universe, _something to take his mind away. _Away from the futile search for evidence linking Moriarty to Lestrade, away from that street corner, away from all the things that could come next, which John knew Sherlock would be thinking up for himself. John had wondered more than once if that wasn't very much the point, to drive Sherlock mad wondering when the next shoe would drop, but he also knew that if that had occurred to him, Sherlock would already have thought of it days prior.

As if in answer to what, had anyone bothered to ask, John would have refused to call his prayers, the phone sitting on the small table next to the oversized armchair in which John preferred to do his blogging began to ring insistently. John cast an eye to Sherlock's still-closed, now likely bolted door, before sighing and grabbing up the receiver.

"Baker Street," John answered, knowing by now that answering with anything else was pointless.

"Y-yes," said a nervous voice on the other end of the line. Nothing new there. "Is this Mr. Holmes?"

"Mr. Holmes," John started, drawing out his words as he decided what, exactly, he would say, "is around here somewhere. This is Dr. Watson. I'd be more than happy to pass along a message."

"Ah, yes, well," the nervous voice, a younger man by the sound of him, continued, "you see, this is supposed, sort of, to be passed along to him directly."

"I see," John continued, trying not to let his frustration get the better of him. He had only so much patience, and Sherlock needed a case sooner rather than later. "And who, if I may ask, is calling?"

There was a sigh on the other end of the line. "Yes, yes, of course. This is Constable Cooper, with the Scotland Yard. You see—."

"Yes, Constable," John interrupted, deciding that this call might just be worth Sherlock's time, and that listening to Cooper's stalls was clearly a waste of his. "We're more than a bit familiar with the Yard round here. Hold on a moment, and I'll see if I can't scare up the man himself for you."

John turned round in his seat to face once more the door behind which his flatmate toiled. "Sherlock," he called, not bothering anymore to cover the phone's receiver.

After a moment, his only reply was a muffled ding from his trouser pocket. _'Busy. –SH'_ read the text John had just received.

John scowled. "Sherlock, phone!" he called more insistently. "It's the Yard!"

This pause was just long enough for an exasperated sigh that John could almost hear through the walls. Before John could shout again, his pocket had dinged once more. _'Take. A. Message. –SH'_. John scowled down at the mobile with a small huff, then turned back to the phone still in his hand.

After muttering something to himself that John would have sworn was definitely _not_ "I'm not your bloody errand boy, you stubborn git", John pulled the receiver back to his ear. "I'm afraid Mr. Holmes isn't available just at the moment, Constable," John told the young man in his cheeriest voice, trying all the harder to keep the annoyance from leaking through, "but he has asked that you allow me to take a message."

Cooper sighed at the other end of the line, but John could have sworn it was in relief. "P'raps it'll come better from you anyhow, doctor. I've never had to call next of kin, anyway, and I wouldn't—."

"I'm sorry," John interrupted again, certain there was a mistake being made. "You must have the wrong number. Or the wrong message, or the wrong—. You've got it wrong. This is Sherlock Holmes, the consultant. You must have some case for him, something the Yard needs his help with."

"Doesn't look that way sir, with respect," the boy went on. "Looks like natural causes, just another one of those random heart attack things, and he was all alone in the flat. Strange, with him so young, I guess, but I hear tell he's one of those government types, and they always have all that stress to work against, so I s'pose it only makes sense."

Government type. Young. Alone. Next of kin. Heart attack. It was all so much to take in, but John knew with a chilling certainty what was coming next. "Mycroft," he said in a numbed voice. "Mycroft Holmes is dead?"

"Heart attack," the constable repeated. "Seems Mr. Holmes is the only contact in Mr.…Holmes's file."

John stared down at the rug, letting the world fade away for a moment. There was a surge of anger, of sorrow, of loss and regret and resentment and fear, all the components mixing to create a wave of grief which rolled through him for a long moment, finally curling in his gut and settling in for what John suspected would be quite a long time. "So you'll be sure and pass the message along then?" Cooper was asking as John pulled himself back to reality.

John stared at the phone, wondering if the young man knew what it was he was asking. "Y-yeah, yes, I'll-I'll make sure he is made aware." John bit his lip as he hung the phone up, not bothering to tell the constable that the conversation had ended.

John turned in place to look at the door to Sherlock's room, just as his pocket dinged once again. _'Anything? –SH' _John had had to give bad news before. He was a doctor, for Christ's sake, he'd told men they were days from death. But this…. John looked down at the mobile in his hand, considering how easy it would be to send a simple text. It would only take two words, 'Mycroft's dead', and John suspected Sherlock would appreciate the brevity. But that wasn't what his friend needed now, John knew.

John had once told Sherlock that he doubted the man was even human. He was so…detached, from himself and often from reality, and John was terrified to realize he had no idea how losing Mycroft would affect that fact. As he strode to the door of Sherlock's room, John considered all the ways he could break the news to his friend, trying to find one which minimized the shock while not making him feel irresponsible as a human being.

The text message option was still alive and very much on the table. John could feel the weight of the mobile in his pocket, bouncing slightly as he moved. He could just knock, call through the door, and run upstairs into his own room, hiding like a child until he was sure whatever storm Sherlock was brewing had ended. Nothing expressed condolences quite like a note, John mused, picturing himself passing a slip of paper under the crack of Sherlock's door. Morse code, Mrs. Hudson, a bathroom mirror message, even alphabet soup, passed through his mind on the short walk across the living room. John thought of writing the event up in a blog post, knowing Sherlock would read it (eventually), but, in the end, John knew he had only one choice.

John tested the knob, only to find it locked, as he had expected. "Sherlock, open the door," John said quietly. His mobile dinged in his pocket, but John ignored it. "Open the door, Sherlock," John said, half again as loud. His pocket dinged again, and he was beginning to lose his patience. "Sherlock, open the bloody door!"

There was a long pause, and John took the silence from his phone as a good sign. After a slight creak on the other side of the door, John heard a click, then another creak as soft footfalls receded. John swung the door into the room, taking in a good look at the surrounding mayhem. But that wasn't why he'd come here, he reminded himself.

Sherlock was sitting on his bare mattress with his back to the door, staring down at the floor. As John approached, he saw a list of names written on the papers which covered the wood at the base of Sherlock's bed. "Sherlock?" John tried when he realized the detective hadn't moved since his arrival.

"Very busy, John," Sherlock informed him in low, hollow tones. He still hadn't moved, and he seemed determined to avoid eye contact.

"Sherlock," John tried again, reaching out to set a hand on the detective's shoulder. "I've…I've had some news."

"You know, John," Sherlock said, turning to look up at him, his eyes only just slightly bleary and his skin paler than John had even thought possible, "you're not nearly so quiet as you think. A next of kin call, I take it?"

And that was the last that John could take. He knelt down on the bare mattress, threading his arms around his friend's neck. "Sherlock—," he began, only to be interrupted.

"Really, John, are you surprised?" He spoke in such dull tones that John couldn't help but pull back to look into the other man's eyes. "Given the circumstances, this seems the obvious result. To be assured, the only surprise should be that this hadn't happened sooner. Liver failure, I take it, or some other ailment related to her drinking?"

"Drinking? Her—Sherlock, who do you—?" Realistically, John was sure he knew exactly who Sherlock thought had died, but in his current state, all he could do was sputter mindlessly.

Sherlock looked up at him with a roll of his eyes. "John, I realize you must be upset, and you and Harry had hardly left things—."

John sighed in exasperation, knowing that, if Sherlock had heard enough to know the call had been of consolation, he must also have heard as John mentioned Mycroft's name. But before John could stop him, Sherlock was off on one of his tangents. "Would you like to see my progress on Lestrade's case?" he asked, speaking as he would have when Lestrade was still alive.

John shook his head, envying the man his denial, deciding to allow it for another moment. "What are you working on there, Sherlock?"

"A list," Sherlock began. "Left column, suspected associate's of Jim Moriarty," he said, sweeping an arm across the room to encompass the entire left side of the room's floor. "Right side, assassins capable of performing the murder without being seen. On a busy street. In broad day light." The list on the right side was decidedly smaller.

All was quiet a moment. "Sherlock," John tried, as the silence lengthened.

"I say that when we find our man," Sherlock said without looking up, "we shall discover we had his name all along, somewhere here on my floor."

"Sherlock," John tried again, circling around to stand in front of the detective.

Sherlock stared resolutely down at the lists, the floor. "I'll confess, I had hoped there would be some overlap between the two, but—."

"Sherlock!" John shouted, forcibly turning the man in question by grabbing him roughly about the shoulders.

Sherlock looked up into John's eyes. "I know, John, I should go and look into it. He'd have wanted that, whether I was interested or not. Particularly if I wasn't. Care to come along with me to his flat?"

John was chewing his lip again as he looked down at his friend, so much smaller than John had expected to find him. He nodded just once, frowning and refusing to look away. "I'm-Sherlock, you should know, I'm just so—."

Sherlock shook his head. "Sentiment is weakness, John. Mycroft taught me that. Go and get us a cab, would you? And fetch my coat."

* * *

Nothing changed, except that everything had. Sherlock was so thorough, so careful to hold the well-crafted mask of annoyed indifference in place that, had John known him any less, he may have actually believed that the man didn't care. God, how he must have wanted John to believe.

It was the eyes that had given him away. John had spent months with those eyes, their movement often the only outward sign of life he deigned to give, and he fancied he knew them, knew Sherlock, better than anybody in the world. Anybody left alive, at any rate. A morbid though that, but one John was sure he could attribute to the mad detective's inexorable influence.

Sherlock's eyes, those strange, swirling clouds he carried around with him, were always crinkled at the sides, narrowed slightly, and moving constantly, noticing, figuring, deducing, calculating. He lived in his eyes, using them to make the assumptions on which his every action was based. John had never seen his eyes so still, so empty, so lifeless as on that long, silent cab ride to Mycroft's flat, a place the doctor hadn't thought enough to wonder at the existence of.

To John, Mycroft had always been an ever-present, watchful force at the edge of reality, a universal constant. He hadn't thought of his friend's older brother in the terms of a man since having met him, and it had never occurred to John that Mycroft would go home at the end of a day, eat a meal, watch a little telly, maybe even knock back a pint before drifting off to sleep. Mycroft was a force of nature, and forces of nature didn't have flats. Then again, forces of nature didn't have fatal heart attacks either, so what in the bloody hell did he even know about it?

As the cab stopped, Sherlock sat, staring at the floor of the passengers' cabin, seemingly oblivious to the world. Had John not known very much better, he'd have thought him lost in his various deductions, making calculations and forming schemes. It occurred to him then how lucky Sherlock was at a time like this to have someone who knew better.

John paid the cabman and led Sherlock out, watching him come alive again just in time to face off against the righteous storm that was the newly minted Detective Inspector Sally Donovan, who was currently marching toward the pair with a purpose.

* * *

I'm really fond of this story so far. Feel free to let me know if you feel the same, and tune in for more next time round. You just know Sally'll have a thing or two to say to the boys.


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